


Never One To Hop In Puddles

by Not_A_Valid_Opinion



Series: What's Luck Got To Do With It [1]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Donald is a good father but a moody person, Gen, Gladstone is kinda an emotional wreck, Gladstone's luck, I love Della though honestly Della rights, I love him, References to Depression, Set before the start of the series, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, anyway I love Fethry so much he really is just a cool guy, cousin antics, dt17 I mean, i just think he's neat, what good is luck if you cant even keep the people you love in your life amirite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 00:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22007143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_A_Valid_Opinion/pseuds/Not_A_Valid_Opinion
Summary: Gladstone Gander is the luckiest duck-goose (Gander) around. He gets whatever he wants with ease and breezes through life in complete comfort, relying on it, embellishing it in. And of course, he gets to rub it in Donald's face.His luck has rules. It doesn’t protect others or spread to them at all. It doesn't stop others from hurting him. It doesn't make him happy, either.The thought ofthen what good is itresounds through him for as long as he can remember.
Relationships: Della Duck & Donald Duck & Fethry Duck & Gladstone Gander, Donald Duck & Gladstone Gander
Series: What's Luck Got To Do With It [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584100
Comments: 25
Kudos: 195





	Never One To Hop In Puddles

**Author's Note:**

> TW for a suicide attempt by jumping off a bridge and for mentions of drunk driving and car accidents. 
> 
> So this fic happened bc I've been sick in bed for the last three days and just got into DT17 a few weeks ago, but was thinking about this guy a lot. And Boyd. But I wrote smth separate for Boyd so I wont bother with him, bc with Gladstone I went on tumblr and searched through his tag to see fan content for the character- as one does- and found quite a few comic strips from back in the day about how the character is often portrayed as unhappy with his luck? I didn't expect it from how he's shown in '17, but I guess the character has a therapist at once point about it, and goes off a lot about how people just use him for his luck and how lonely he is. And I was like, shit dude. That sucks ass. I should write a 25000 page fic about that.  
> Then I realized that was insane and I split it into two fics so this can be a three-part series where the next to parts are about Lui Hai and just general cleanup for this fic. So basically I went off  
> Anyway hope somebody out there enjoys this. Not even sure I do but I went through all this effort to clean it up and post it, so maybe somebody will do what I did and stalk character tags until this pops up. This fic gets pretty depressing but it doesn't end that way bc I'm a sucker for cheesy happy endings and I want my life to get better so dammit it's going to for this dumb bastard. Also rights for Elvira put her in '17 or I will riot

Gladstone was one lucky duck. Or, well, half duck- but no difference. 

For as long as he could recall, the world rotated for him. He’d never meant for it to, and at first, he did little to ask for it. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t mind it- in fact, he grew to love it for all the right reasons. 

Gladstone breezed through childhood. He never had to worry about anything, because things seemed to always go his way in the easiest, most convenient route life offered him, and he always accepted it because there was little thought put into why he shouldn’t. It started so small that it was unnoticed by his parents, who were fortunate in wealth as it was, and always considered themselves so lucky to have found themselves in their position of financial comfort they simply assumed their son was born into that comfort. With little Gladstone, it was more than fortune- it was luck itself that embodied him, held closer to him than his own skin. 

He’d find anything he needed anytime he needed it, and was lucky enough to face no repercussions for taking it, outside of a harsh stare from a jealous neighbour or two as he’d catch a twenty in the eye and they’d be left wishing they could do the same. He’d be just out of the way of a puddle to not get wet, and just close enough to the sun to be warmed by it without burning his wings. 

As his luck went on, though, it felt forever- and certainly became more noticeable when his unearned wealth piled up and up until he became nearly richer than his parents. Of course, Gladstone was not selfish yet. He gave a lot of it to his parents, thinking no reason to have it himself, and he offered the twenties that kissed his face as he walks to those neighbours whom clutch their garden hoses tight and stiff until they see he’s willing to share. 

And, sure. He milks it. He’s child- for all the time he had as one, he didn’t mind if other kids (sometimes even adults) clung to him in an attempt for his luck to rub off on them. 

It never did rub off on them. Some hated him for it, he knew. But it was easy to dissuade anger when he could simply find himself lucky enough to have enough to share. 

His luck was amazing. How could he mind? 

(Eventually, with nobody at his side save for those standing in waiting for luck to balance out the weight of their presence, he comes to do more than mind. He comes to not care, and it's the end of it all, in his mind's eye.)

Luck like his has rules. It takes Gladstone an uncharacteristically unlucky amount of time to really understand those rules, and in doing so, recognize the three fundamental truths about his luck of which he’d learned too late to defend himself from, to defend  _ others  _ from, or even, in some circumstances, to protect others from himself. Because, his luck was just a thing- but things were things because they behaved one way or another. When Gladstone stopped looking at his luck as a haze of fortune and ease that followed him and favoured him and started to come to terms with the thinginess of his luck- its attachment to him, and how it was more than just there but also functioning in one way or another, like everything and everyone does or comes to do- he could try and control it. 

Or, he hoped. That's another thing he learns alongside figuring out his luck- there was no controlling it. It isn’t an entity. It isn’t choosing to help him along. It’s  _ just there,  _ and it worked as only luck could. 

It had limits. 

It ran out. 

And, of course- it hesitated to apply. 

He was just about to turn eight when his parents passed away in a car accident, struck by a drunk teen on a friday night. It wasn’t lucky at all. But, it wasn’t  _ him-  _ so of course, his luck had no factor into it at all. His Grandma Elvira lived on a farm that was a contrast from the mansion he’d lived in with his parents, but it was remote and peaceful, and he found the change less harsh than he'd expected. 

Their passing was met with words of disdain aimed at him, cloaked as mourning and condolences yet wielded like knives.  _ Guess they weren’t as lucky as their little one,  _ he hears a family member whisper to her partner.  _ Hush, he might hear us _ as a whisper back. 

He should have cried more, he thinks, sitting quiet the whole funeral next to his grandmother who sends glares at the couple behind them. He was unsure if he cried at all, for that matter, though he begins to hate himself for the first real time the moment he realizes this. He always thought it was shock, that it would settle in eventually. 

Maybe he was just too self involved to care, or to care enough. 

(Gladstone wanted more than anything to not have thought that way, but it was an early thought in his life, one that hits him on and on and chips him away. He does cry, eventually. It just takes him twenty years to get there). 

The move allows him to see his cousins more. They visit the farm a lot, most of the time with Uncle Scrooge McDuck, who comes to visit Elvira. Scrooge usually says hello and quickly walks off, probably more interested in his grandmother than him, and he finds it disappointing and a little challenging to have someone so uninterested in his presence. Most people that hung around him were either legally strapped with him (his grandma, for instance) or liked what he had and, therefore, liked him (literally everyone else). Scrooge seemed annoyed when Gladstone tried, the few times he did, to offer him whatever luck tossed at his face. 

He once tried to give Scrooge a twenty that threw itself into his face unprompted. He peeled it off his bill and handed it to Scrooge, or at least tried to. “Here, a gift,” he’d mumbled, still rubbing where it had slapped his face unceremoniously. 

Scrooge scoffed, a harsh tone Gladstone wasn’t accustomed to hearing. “I don’t accept handouts. I actually earn what I have, lad.” 

Gladstone retracts his hand, stung. He tosses the money to the wind, but the gust changes, and it tackles the back of his head. Again, he peels it off of him, and this time pockets the money. “It’s not my fault I keep getting twenties to the face.” 

With a simple eye-roll and an unflattering pat to the head, Scrooge laughs at his dilemma as though it were a joke, and suddenly, under his worn hands that have likely,  _ certainly,  _ faced bigger problems and conquered them- Gladstone feels like one. “Now, lad. It's never any good to accept yer fate. Ya wanna earn things, ya have to work for em!” 

Bristling, Gladstone ducks out from his touch. “Why should I? I don’t have to with my luck.” 

The old duck looks more than annoyed by the comment, and turns away, mumbling about how it was ‘no use.’ He dumps his niece and nephew, sometimes in plural though usually just the two, on him and makes his way inside the farmhouse before Gladstone could talk to him the best of times. 

Gladstone’s being there, according to cousin Della, gives them something to do when Scrooge comes to visit Elvira because she likes to use him as a treasure magnet, which mostly involves them walking about and hoping Gladstone will be lucky enough to find a mystery, adventure, literal treasure, or just something nifty. That usually does happen, and he plays along as though it was a game, because it was rather amusing. He especially likes how happy she looked when he found a golden shell conveniently in front of his feet, and her eyes glowed when he offered it to her. 

He’ll never forget how she’d let him keep it. “It’s gorgeous,” she told him. “You keep it. I’m just having fun seeing what we can find. Also, Scrooge will take it because it’s too big to hide, and he’s rich enough, if you ask me.” 

Donald was nice to him most of the time, because Della was. He was just… well, Donald was the kind of kid who liked to point out when things were unfair, which his bad luck often struck his own way. So, paired with Gladstone, he felt life was unfair to  _ him _ in particular, and often. Gladstone could tell he tried not to take it out on him, but he wasn’t always successful in his temperament. The Gander wished they could get along better, but if he was being honest- he loved to rip into Donald, whom he refused to get on his knees and beg for him to like. If Donald was going to be passive aggressive at every turn, fine. Gladstone would brag at every twist. He thought it was funny, and most importantly, he thought it was justified. He was a kid- his luck was all he had. 

Donald was the only one who seemed to hate him for that, though Scrooge’ judgement never escaped his notice. It was a childhood rage he’d never seemed to shake, even as they grew up- a taunting brag Gladstone, in tandem response, had leaned into and never quite leaned off of. 

It was Elvira who knew it was an act. One he’d adopted so well it no longer was, but she’d noticed nonetheless. 

“You shouldn’t strike his nerves just because he strikes yours,” she’d told him. Gladstone wore a frown. 

“Why not? He doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m too lucky.” 

“No, he thinks he’s not lucky enough. He doesn’t realize how lucky he has it yet, but he will.” 

Gladstone frowned. “But he  _ is  _ unlucky. He’s always falling over or getting mud on his feathers or something. And then he gets upset about it, and upset about me, just because I don’t!” 

Elvira sighs. She pauses in her knitting, and Gladstone can make out the beginning of a scarf, one green and small and likely for him. He wants to thank her, but she hasn’t said it was for him yet, nor is he in the mood to change the topic so easily. Calmly, her eyes drift up from her creation to his own, and they’re softer than the fabric he’s yet to touch. 

“You didn’t choose your luck, and no matter what anybody says of it, you  _ are  _ more than it,” she promises. “Little Donald is like many others. They won't see you for what you are, just for what luck will have you be.” 

Gladstone slumps down onto the floor, leaning against her rocking chair. “That’s depressing.” 

“That’s life, dear. It treats everyone unfairly, and your dilemma will be how nobody sees that wear and tear on you.” 

The Gander scratches his arms, gaze far off. Elvira was smart, and old, and wise. He trusted her, and while he didn’t want it to be true, he already knew it was. 

But it  _ can’t  _ be. He’s lucky! How can life be unfair if he’s supposed to be lucky? Unless… “Are you saying I’m  _ unlucky?”  _

She’d itches her foot idly. The scarf slides a little from her lap with the movement, but Gladstone catches the tail end of it and helps her readjust it on her lap. “Well, why wouldn’t you be?” She starts to work through the material with her needles once again. “All you can do is be proud of who you are, but only the unlucky gloat about what they have.” 

The Gander purses his beak. Stops scratching, and asks her what she means, but she’s already back to her knitting. He didn’t understand, of course, and thought she’d been insulting him. He didn’t take heed of her words until she’d died. Gladstone was a month away from being old enough to live on his own so the CPS let it pass, lucky him. 

Gladstone didn’t cry much. He teared up, at the funeral, and he thinks he might have cried if he’d been the one to find her body, but he’d been at school and it had been one of Elvira’s visiting friends who found her. She’d said he was lucky to have been out of the house, because it was a hard thing to witness. Gladstone had felt nothing but sick. 

He’d paid for the entire funeral, even though Scrooge tried to pitch in. He had the money, and it was filled with her favourite flowers, her favourite shade of purple, her wish to have a man with a hook for a hand to play a solemn piano song while everyone else sat sadly in silence.

This time, he sat by his cousin- a boy named Fethry, monitored closely by his own parents at his side, is stuck to him the whole time. He’s met him before, on the farm, dropped off once or twice during visits. He usually got interested in how a tree is shaped or how the ground dipped in a duvet, far more so than whatever Gladstone could offer him, and the boy found himself tagging along after Fethry more than the other way around whenever he came over. While speeches are made, the teen- maybe only a few years younger than himself- whispers to him, “want me to send some fireflies above the casket? I’ve got a couple in a jar in my pocket. They’re really pretty.” 

Gladstone raises an eyebrow, but tells him to go ahead. He loves the things Fethry finds pretty. He once led Gladstone around Elvira’s farm house to a rather large rain puddle, and told him to lean down and watch how pretty the shimmer of the water was. Gladstone watched it sparkle and shine, a perfect reflection of the sunlight above, and decided then and there that this kid was one of the good ones. 

Fethry pulls out the jar, then pockets it again without doing anything. “Nevermind. I poked holes bigger than them in the lid. They’re gone already,” he explains, looking sad, like he’d just lost something precious. 

It’s surreal, but Gladstone chooses to comfort him, missing out on whatever whoever was speaking was saying. “Hey, it’s okay. Thank you.” 

Fethry smiles. He sits quietly, after that. 

Gladstone realizes once its over that he hadn’t cried that funeral, either. A harsh part of his brain whispers,  _ go for three?  _ And he squashes it like a bug, something Fethry wouldn’t be too proud to see him do. 

He wonders what good his luck is if he couldn’t let the ones he loved live. Her words were there then, in his head, while one of his distant cousins made a speech in her honor, and they stayed long after. They still didn’t make sense, but they were disarmingly real, disproportionately loud over whatever the name of the duck talking was saying. 

His luck had rules. And the first he’d come to learn was that his luck didn’t protect others or spread to them at all. 

The thought of  _ then what good is it  _ resounds through him for as long as he can remember, and is not one easily desmantaled.

  
  
  


See, Gladstone didn’t bother to question his luck, not at first. He loved it. It made him breeze through tests and skip grades, win scholarships every once in a while and allow him to skimp out on paying outrageous tuition prices for the most part, despite his parents’ fortune being more than enough for it, and his own luck leading his way into an easy life of riches if he chose it. It gained him (as opposed to  _ earning _ him) freedom from the stress of endless exams and tests, and little need to go out of his way to get what he wanted, as it always came to him in one way or another. 

But he could never get his cousin Donald to like him. 

Donald was not often seen, especially after the loss of grandma Elvira. Scrooge had custody of the farm, and it wasn’t up to Gladstone who got to live in it, but whoever ended up inside would likely not have been enough reason to visit anymore. Gladstone only kept living there long enough for his luck to land him a new house, one astoundingly cheap for what it entailed, far out of the way of everyone else. He himself was not worth the effort of getting to by Scrooge or Donald and, by default, Della. The two often stuck together, and when Donald was mad at him Della did little to reach out in placation. 

Or, maybe she was mad, too. That was a possibility. She never showed it, never in the black anger Donald weaponized his way. She sometimes looked uncomfortable around him, like she had something to say and refused to say it. He’d asked her to spit it out once, lightly of course, and she’d responded just as lightly.  _ You don’t always need to act like the peak of a summet when you know you're around people struggling to climb, yet never failing to try.  _ She’d sounded weirdly wistful, though mostly just uncomfortable, and the moment made Gladstone even more so. 

He didn’t reach out to Della in specific, and she didn’t reach out to him. It felt more like they’d drifted overtime than Della hated him. Though, maybe she did. Maybe everyone did. 

Donald certainly did. Perhaps, Gladstone had entertained in notion, that was why it bothered him so much. 

Eventually, Donald gave up on him. Stopped yelling when he got upset with him. Stopped throwing cans at his head as a warning, even though they  _ hit  _ and they  _ hurt.  _

__ The fact that they hit and they hurt wouldn’t clue it into his head until much later on, when he’d bleeding outside of a casino he’d won just a little too much at and pissed off a few too many tigers over, that he  _ could _ get hurt. Of course, that part was obvious- but the situation was what really took him in for an understanding. 

He only ever got hurt when someone  _ hurt  _ him. This was, after some thought, a second rule to his luck. It was never because he’d trip and sprain his ankle like Donald had done that one time, or burnt his skin and with a welding torch on accident like Della had done, or even just accidentally ran headfirst into a swing-out door like little Fethry had that one time. 

(Gladstone rued how little he saw Fethry except for holidays and funerals. He didn’t have a phone, and though Gladstone offered to buy him one so they could stay in touch, Fethry had insisted that string-cans were the way to go, though it- for obvious reasons- hardly ever worked. He never told Fethry he was lucky, much like he never told anybody he was, though most found out as he never could hide it. If Fethry noticed, he never said so. He never asked for anything other than his time, and in that, he’d usually just show Gladstone some dirt and say it looked like a face, isn’t that cool, Cuz? Gladstone loved the guy, truely.)

It was never the world that hurt him. He was lucky enough to avoid the flu when it hit, to avoid the puddles on the ground when he’d just barely noticed them, to never even have to look both ways when crossing the street unless others crossed with him (because at that point, it could be them that got hit, especially if they assume he’s already looked because he’s already walking. That had happened, once. Gladstone had to fill out a witness report, and didn’t sleep for weeks.)

Only people could hurt him. So yes, the cans Donald hurled his way, when they landed, hurt. They hurt like his luck hadn’t even tried to move him out of they way. And they never hurt as much as that day Donald had decided he’d had enough of Gladstone. 

This was less than a month into Gladstone moving into Donald’s apartment. He’d intended to stay much longer, though Donald had been hesitant to let him stay at all. 

He’d moved in with Donald because he wanted him to be  _ okay-  _ he didn’t want him to he the sole caretaker of Della’s three little eggs when he was in a state that he could hardly even take care of himself, and he wanted to be sure that he could be there for him, and was lucky enough to show up at just the right townhouse at just the right time, just as Donald was too exhausted from researching schools and setting up rooms and generally forgetting to take care of himself that he had no room to argue when Gladstone told him he’d like to help. 

(It was also, notable only to Gladstone himself, the last time he’d talked to his Uncle Scrooge McDuck. Scrooge, who watched luck take him places he never earned and scoffed in his face, the first person to ever truly made Gladstone feel bad about his luck. It wasn’t his fault- Scrooge was an honest working duck, and it was clear that Gladstone’s life was a near insult simply by existence. The older he grew, the more he felt the bridge between the two of them separating, and soon it was his affiliation with Scrooge that seemed to make him most embarrassed of his nephew.) 

“You can stay at my place,” was what Gladstone had offered his cousin, after showing up at his apartment unannounced and making his tame greetings with the begrudged duck. It was a few weeks after Della- 

Well. He’d been at the private non-disclosure memorial held for her, where nobody explained what happened, only family by blood association were allowed inside (plus some chicken with abysmal fashion taste, though with how big their family was, Gladstone wasn’t certain he wasn’t family), and Donald had three little eggs in a trolley that he looked at the whole time. When Scrooge tried to make his mourning, he’d left altogether, looking as though he was doing all in his power to not cry, and Scrooge had left just moments after. They’d exchanged no words, him and Donald, or even him and Scrooge. He’d instead sat by Fethry, who’d been the one to tell him Donald would be taking care of the eggs. 

_ Go for three?  _

Nope, hadn’t cried there either. Though, to be fair, the memorial was more confusing than depressing to anybody there. It was hard to be sad when nobody would even confirm Della was dead. Fethry had mentioned how big the ocean was, and how maybe she went adventuring underwater and decided to live out the rest of her days there, and just didn’t tell anybody. And forgot she had eggs to take care of. And a family that would miss her. The more Fethry went on about it, the less like Della it sounded, and neither of them knew how to handle that. 

It had sat wrong with everybody, after that, as nobody knew if Della really  _ was _ dead or just run off and the ‘memorial service’ was just a euphemism. Nobody called it a funeral. It felt more like a trial than anything, and was uncomfortable as hell. Watching Donald’s expression shatter- that was something that stayed with Gladstone the many nights afterwards, and led him to taking random turns down random alleyways and up to an apartment he’d never been to, but to his luck, he knocks and it’s Donald there. 

It was four in the afternoon, but Donald looked like he’d either just woken up or hadn’t slept for weeks. Through his unslept eyes and messy fluff of a tuft, he’d glowered. Gladstone figures he must find the sudden suggestion offensive or confusing, so he backpedals, “-or, I can stay here. With you. For a little while. Let me worry about groceries and expenses, just while you get your ground at this whole ‘parenting’ thing.” 

“I don’t need charity, especially from you,” Donald spits. Perhaps he’d meant it nicer and was too tired to try for a settling tone. Gladstone replays the words in his head with a kinder inflection to better digest them and come up with a kinder answer for, because Donald is in a position where he is allowed to be mad. He’s not sure what happened to Della, but he knows Donald is angry, and he knows its not at him. 

“It’s for Della, then,” he tries a bit softer, and even Donald hesitates in his rage at the careful mention of his sister. “Look, Donnie. You’ll be perfect parent. You’ll be just what they need. I have no doubts, and I’m not trying to step in and take anything away from you. But you look like you have slept since-”  _ since she died, _ he almost says, and has to do a double take at himself before he all but whispers, “and I just- I just want to help, somehow. Let me put my luck to use, eh? Just for a little bit?” 

Donald regards him for so long Gladstone is scared he’s inflating like a balloon, puffing himself full of air to explode in rage and chase Gladstone off the scene. 

He doesn’t. The balloon he is deflates, and he lets Gladstone inside before dragging his flippers against rough apartment carpet and sagging against his couch, tugging at his head fluff so hard tufts of it come out. Gladstone follows and closes the door awkwardly behind him. He strides inside, a usual walking gait that he’s used to Donald glowering at, but his eyes are downcast. Hesitantly, Gladstone reaches out to him, but the action goes unseen with Donald’s arms over his eyes, and he never quite worked up the courage to complete the movement. 

“I don’t know what she was thinking. Or… or I do, and that’s what makes it so hard,” Donald whines, voice muffled by his own limbs. 

Gladstone licks his beak and waits to see if he’d say anymore. When he doesn't, he asks, “do you… wanna talk about it, Cuz? ‘Cuz, yano, I’m a pretty good listener.” 

Donald shifts his limbs to glare daggers at him, but instead of barking, he groans out, “No. But… thanks for the offer.” 

Gladstone pretends to tip a hat, and simply sits with him for a while after that. 

Donald never did tell him what happened to Della. He did, however, let him stay. Gladstone tries to help in whatever way he can- he’d do dishes (easy, totally not gross at all, he never had to anymore what with his functioning dishwasher and all but at least he knew how to do it, since Elvira used to make him) and keep the house clean, because a depressed Donald- one who wasn’t sleeping and constantly sat and talked to the unwavering eggs that weren’t his own but were now, who looked as though all the fight had been ripped out of him- well, that Donald didn’t exactly pick his shirts off the floor, or keep his work shirt pressed, or remember to put the milk back in the fridge. Donald was a very capable duck, especially during times of duress. 

He was also a very tired duck, and Gladstone was just lucky enough to never miss noticing the milk when it was left on the counter or the shirt that shouldn’t have been tossed onto the vent. He was also there because Donald was the kind of guy that would never go to work if he knew that the eggs had to be constantly babysat at their stage, and wouldn’t be able to afford his apartment and a nanny and an investment in savings for the kids (“what about Scrooge’s money?” he’d asked as a side-line, and Donald had shattered the cup of coffee he was holding in his hand) all at once, now with his job at a reception company; a total downgrade from rich-off-expenses-from-expeditioning-with-Scrooge but if it was a soft spot for Donald, he wouldn’t mention it. 

He got it. Maybe better than anybody, though that hardly mattered, as Donald likely was in the same boat. 

Gladstone babysat. It was the least he could do, and the whole point of being there for him meant being there when he needed him, and he needed someone to be there- maybe not  _ specifically  _ him, but still- so he would be. 

So he was. For a little over a month, he was the best babysitter the world had to offer (if you asked Gladstone, that is. If you asked Donald, he’d probably say,  _ he’s free, so whatever.) _

He follows Donald’s careful instructions and takes care of them while he was at work. “Though, he doesn’t need to be working, because I have plenty of money,” Gladstone would coo to the eggs, which needed constant talking-to like plants, according to Donald. “But your uncle- your father, really, at this point- does  _ not  _ want my money. He doesn’t even want me, he’s just tolerating me because I’m an outlet for his pride so he can work and actually save up money for you three, by his own hard-working hands.” 

The eggs don’t reply. They never do. Gladstone sighs. “Of course, I can’t say that in a bad way. I can never experience those things. I don’t know if I want to or not, but I do know my luck never works if I actually try at something. All that shows then is how utterly useless I am without it,” he laments. The eggs are good listeners, he decides. He keeps going; “Donald is a better duck than me in that sense. He’s gotten so used to being at everything that he’s good at it, at this point. You’re lucky, kids. Just don’t ever be as lucky as me.” 

One of the eggs wobbles, just a little. Gladstone watches it carefully, but it does no more than that. He tells Donald about it when he gets home, and the duck looks heartbroken- not the reaction Gladstone had been hoping for by any means. 

“I’m missing their biggest moments already,” the duck cries, “and they’re not even hatched yet! I’m still working off my debt! I’ve hardly even saved enough for one of them to get by, and there’s three!” 

Gladstone bites his tongue. He wants to offer his money, or suggest Scrooge’s, but neither tend to go over well with Donald. Especially when it came to Gladstone’s own money, Donald was adamant on declining. would never accept his money, not as ‘charity’, but he didn’t notice when every few days he’d slip a twenty that flitted through the crack in the window into the duck’s wallet. 

Gladstone doesn’t know how to help, here. He pats Donald’s back, and more to himself than anything, lets out a hefty breath. “I wish you would  _ let me.”  _

__ Donald raises an eyebrow, still looking miserable. “Let you what?” 

“Let me  _ help.”  _

__ “You are helping. Staying with the boys while I work-” 

“No, I mean-” he scratches his arm anxiously, “financially. I could at least pay off your debt so you have a head start, that way you can still work-” 

Donald groans, basically a growl, and Gladstone cuts himself off. The silence is short, and Donald is the one to push it away. “You wouldn’t understand. Stop trying to act like you do.” 

He bristles, but Donald doesn’t seem to notice.  _ Don’t start anything,  _ a voice close to Elvira cautions, but he’s  _ trying  _ to understand Donald’s position even if he  _ doesn’t  _ understand, and the fact that his cousin refuses to see that bothers him greatly. He thinks back to all the times Donald snapped at him as a kid. All the  _ what do you know _ s couples with the  _ you’ve never had to struggle _ s and the  _ you get everything you want on your pretty little hand but I don’t so buzz off _ s. He remembers Donald calling him selfish more than once, even though he only kept that twenty he found because he knew it would come back to him until he did, and Donald wouldn’t take it if he offered anyway. 

Gladstone breathes carefully. “I get that you don’t like me. Really, I do. But at this point, can you at least acknowledge that me giving you money shouldn’t be considered so different from me babysitting and saving you money? No matter how you look at it, me helping has a financial impact. At least let me-” 

“Oh, will you stop?” Donald groans. Gladstone bites his tongue so hard, he thinks he can taste blood. “I  _ get it.  _ You’re just here to rub your luck in my face! If I was so lucky, I wouldn’t have these issues at all and you wouldn’t need to be here at all, but I’m  _ not,  _ okay? Are you only helping to remind me of that? Is that all this is?” 

Gladstone swallows harshly. “You really think I came all this way and stayed this long just for  _ bragging rights?”  _

Donald crosses his arms. “I don’t know. Did you?” 

“No! Of course not. You-” he clenches his fists tight at his side, then releases them and blows out a puff of air.  _ Keep a cool head. Take a deep breath. He’s just stressed. He doesn’t hate you.  _ “You keep trying to see the worst in me. And I get it. I’m insufferable. You aren’t the only one who makes that perfectly clear, but you’re certainly keeping it up longer than most. But here’s the thing- if I’m only here because you’re unlucky instead of, you know, because we’re family and I actually want to make your life easier because I care about you or something, then just  _ let  _ me pay your debt off, and your next few house bills, and your grocery bills, and whatever else you need. I’ll transfer over everything you need from far away, so me being here won't be a problem anymore. Everybody wins!” 

Donald looks outraged. “Well I appreciate the offer,” he says, not sounding anything of the sort, “but I don’t need it.” 

_ I don't need you,  _ he doesn’t say. Maybe he doesn’t even hear it in the air, but Gladstone does. The words felt  _ familiar.  _ They felt like that mantra that he heard in his head and stomped down, down, down whenever he could. 

_ What good is it?  _

_ What good is it?  _

_ What good is it?  _

“So,” Gladstone’s voice is devoid of emotion. A lack of tears at a loss, a loss, a loss, and a loss. Maybe another in the making, in the moment, in his eyes as he speaks. “Where do we stand, then?” 

Donald crosses his arms. He doesn’t say anything. Maybe he doesn’t want to keep fighting, either. The thought is enough for a breather, but it only lasts a moment, one pierced by the silence of the next and the silence after that as Donald does not respond. 

It hurts, Gladstone can’t lie. He also can’t fight anymore, the ice in Donald’s silence- his eyes suddenly soft, like he wants to apologize but doesn’t know what for- shattering his anger and sending him plummeting into the cold water below. 

Gladstone nods tiredly. “Want me to go?” He asks, already expecting the answer. 

Donald rubs his arm, and doesn’t answer. The  _ that would be best  _ goes unspoken but not unheard, unfelt. Gladstone grabs his wallet out of his pocket- not that he ever really needed a wallet, as money came to him whenever he needed it and he didn’t like to save money, anyway. But this wasn’t about him, and it certainly wasn’t for him. He pulls out a wad of hundreds, at least twenty in the bunch. Not much, but he was lucky to have taken it with him at all. He puts it on the kitchen counter, and Donald tracks the movement with something just as exhausted as might be on his own face. 

“Use this for babysitters, then. I’ll send more if you let me, but I’ll understand if you don’t. You can just toss my toothbrush,” he says tiredly, and leaves, because he didn’t bring anything with him when he came and he wasn’t going to take anything when he left. 

Donald doesn’t stop him. 

  
  


The last time he’d talked to the Scrooge Mcduck had been over the phone, with Gladstone begging him to look past whatever the two were fighting over just to keep an eye on Donald. To make sure he doesn’t run himself into the ground trying to do what he should have never had to do to begin with. 

Scrooge had hung up the phone before he’d even finished his request. 

  
  


So, yes. Only people could hurt him. His family, most of all, in ways that weren’t physical, but the physicalness of injury never skipped him when it was a fist or a kick or once a knuckle-brass aimed his way. Gladstone couldn’t help his cocky exterior, had grown into it and groomed it into a shield, one that did more harm than good when it pissed people off more often then not. He got into scuffles only every once in a while, never throwing the first punch himself, never having any reason as to why he should. 

He loses the only family he cares to hold onto in Donald. Della was gone, Fethry was off to school (though they talked on the tin-can line where they could, he was often too busy these days, and Gladstone missed him more than he cared to admit), and Scrooge- well, he was too scared to face Scrooge still, incase he met a reflection of what he saw in himself on the old duck’s eyes. 

He had nobody. He had people that wanted the handouts his luck offered him, that he tossed away, tired of receiving after a while. They were never permanent, and no more real than schoolyard buddies who wanted a stick of gum when you pulled a pack out- there for the moment, the offer, the reward of their time and smiles. 

He really had nobody. And he started to feel like the most unlucky duck-goose in the world. Not that he could tell anybody else that- who would he tell anyway? He had everything, so what right in this world, that constantly beat good people like Donald down yet lifted his sorry ass high above the mud everyone else had to swim in, did he have to complain? None, he reasoned. He was nothing more than whining. Just smile and saunter and move through the days, and stop thinking of Donald, or Della, or Scrooge or even Fethry. 

It worked. For a time. 

It was a short time. 

It was far too short a time, really, and Gladstone learns what he could never as a child have placed himself as learning- the third thing- rule, if you will- about his luck. 

That his luck was not what he wanted. 

Luck protected him. It made life easier. It gave him what he desired. 

It did not give him his family. It did not give him contentment, or even joy. His luck felt like it was working to someone else's definition of what being lucky might be. Gladstone thought about what being lucky meant for him, and how little it applied. 

He’d be lucky if he could be happy. He thought he was, but he was just fortunate- ease dressed as comfort wasn’t as well-fitted as the days where Della would smile at him for using his luck to make the day interesting, or Fethry’s voice suddenly coming from a tin-can on his bedshelf to ask him to watch the solar eclipse with him, or Donald looking at him with thanks in his eyes when he sees him doing the dishes, even though the moment is lost just moments later when Gladstone can't help but complain that something gross just touched his hand. 

He thinks, and he thinks. He remembers his parents, and how they loved him before his luck made itself apparent, and after, for as long as they had time to love him. Grandma Elvira, too, flashes into his mind- her harsh honesty was the only thing that kept him humble those days. He wonders, if he had her to hold him tight to modesty, would he have made Scrooge proud, for once? Would he have been someone he wanted to be, instead of who he ended up as? 

He hadn’t cried, not before, not really. He never felt capable of it, though he wanted to. He was sad, but he was never sad enough. 

He wasn’t sad now. He wasn’t happy, either. He was… he felt  _ empty.  _ He felt like everything he’d done in his life was out of a gust of wind leading him there, and everyone he lost was because he hadn’t been better at walking on his own two flippers. 

There was nothing left for him to do but keep drifting, and the thought was simply too much to bear. Yet, he bears it. 

He thinks, but he bears it. 

He thinks, he can handle it. 

He thinks, and thinks, and thinks. 

He doesn’t want to, anymore. 

Nobody would miss him. Nobody cared enough too, and if he was honest with himself- he wouldn’t miss him. If all he could do with his life was find twenty dollars every few moments or live life at ease without ever having to try at anything, well. It wasn’t enough for him.

He wasn’t lucky if this was his life. He thinks this to himself like a mantra, and it blares loudly in his head for so long, he wonders if this is what he’s been pushing down all this time. 

It takes him to the edge of the bridge he stands by, holding onto the railing and breathing quickly, terrified for a reason he couldn’t place. 

So, this was what being out of options felt like. Cold, with harsh post-rain winds tugging at his feathers and icing the rims of his coat, offering no warmth, not in any way that mattered. The bar to the railing is ice to the touch, yet he grips it so hard his knuckles must change colour, not that he’s looking at them. He’s staring at the bottom of the drop- the very, very high drop, and thinks about just how awful his luck really is. Is this how Donald feels? Was that why he looked so tired the last time he saw him, just two years ago? 

The thought sickens him. He throws up over the railing, dry heaving for a while, kneeling down at the edge and never once releasing his grip, held tight with both hands. He’s lucky that nobody drives on the bridge at this time of the night. He’s lucky nobody is there to stop him. 

Maybe his luck will finally do him some good, after all. Yet, he can’t shake the thought of Donald, suffering under the weight of the world and lashing out every which way, how much he misses him. Misses getting yelled at. Misses getting kicked out, even, because at least someone was there, giving him an honest answer instead of begging for scraps or attention or sex or money, because with Gladstone, everyone knew there was plenty to go around. 

But Donald never wanted anything from Gladstone other than for him to be a good person, and he couldn’t even be that for him. The Gander shudders and tugs himself closer to the bar of the bridge, away from the backdrop fall that cascades down into calm-water curves so deceiving from what they could do. He tugs into his coat pocket after better wrapping his arms around the bar, and, with shaking hands threatening to drop the phone in his hands, scrolls his way through his all but five contacts and taps on DONNIE. 

He brings the phone to his head and waits, the ringing slow and painful and entirely matching his heartbeat. He didn’t think to check the time on the phone- he was probably going to wake Donald up, the thought sending a lump down his throat as sharp as knives. It rings again. It rings again. 

Gladstone almost hangs up the phone himself when it finally clicks into receiver mode. “‘Allo?” grumbles a familiar voice. “‘Uz’n Gl’sone?” 

Oh ya. He definitely woke him up, that was for sure. He almost couldn't respond. He shouldn’t respond. There's nothing to say, nothing that will do him any good, will make him change his mind or even make it up at all. He can’t fix things, not when he’s the problem. 

“Helloooooo?” Donald tunes into the phone, his voice hushed. Maybe he was trying not to wake up the kids. Della’s three little ducklings. They were, what, two now? Were they all boys, like they had thought? Were they all healthy? Were they spitting images of their mother? He wasn’t sure, and he hated that. He didn’t even know their names. Well, Donald  _ had  _ told him, back when they were still eggs- told him three rhyming names, one for sure ‘Louie-for-short’ and the other two lost to the bank of his memory. He recalled Donald telling him the names were better than what Della had picked out, because he remembered how nasty Donald’s tone of voice was when he’d said it. 

He must have not said anything for a while, because the tired sounding breath of his cousin breathes heavy in a weighted sigh and could push Gladstone off the bridge alone. “Did you butt-dial me? At 2:32 AM on a Saturday? I cannot believe this-” Donald is grumbling, and Gladstone can’t let him think that, and hops in as quickly as his can.

“No! No, not a, not a butt-dial. Proper dial, with finger-scrolling and everything. 2:32? What are you still doing up?” he asks, his own voice light and careful and practiced, but even he can hear a slight tremble to it. 

There’s a momentary pause. “You  _ woke _ me up! You- what is this, Gladstone? Is something wrong?” 

“No, no, no. Nothing’s wrong, Cuz! I just,” he licks the edge of his beak, really trying to think of what he’s  _ just. _ The icy wind around him numbs the tips of his fingers around the phone, and he shuffles closer to the bars to better adjust it on his head. “Just wanted to. Yano, check in. Been a hot minute.” 

Donald takes a really long time to respond, and Gladstone is shaking so badly- from either the cold or the fear- that his teeth are chattering. Maybe Donald can hear it, too, because he eventually says, “Where are you?” 

Gladstone looks around himself. The bridge is old and high up, with enough room for a car to cross but not enough of a reason for any to. Around him, it feels like there’s only sky and a drop down to water he can’t see except for the reflection of the bridge lights and the moon above, which he refuses to look at while he’s on the phone. “Oh, just out for a stroll. Couldn’t… couldn’t sleep. Uh, it just finished raining, so it’s pretty wet still. Lots of puddles. I remember,” he rambles, but smiles, too, “one time, back when we were kids and we used to visit each other all the time, you and Della would always splash around in the puddles, her on purpose and you on accident. Fethry tried to drink the puddle water, and we just let him, remember that? And boy, I was never one to hop around in puddles. I always dodged them with ease. And you would get so mad, because you’d try to avoid them, too, but never quite could.” 

Donald doesn’t say anything. Gladstone understands why- he heard his own voice falter in its confidence, just for a moment, clipped by the sudden wetness in his eyes. He’s holding onto the bar tighter than ever, unsure of what else to do, certain that if he let go it would  _ not  _ be because of an accident. 

He wonders if his luck will save him, and if that would even be lucky at all. He supposes he’ll find out. 

Before Donald responds, he heaves a gathering breath, trying to put himself back together, just for while Donald was on the phone. He could break down one last time- one  _ first  _ time- once he hung up. “I wonder if it was lucky that I missed the puddles, or unlucky that I missed out on sharing something with you. I suppose I was never very good at being humble, eh?” 

“... Gladstone. Where are you, right now?” 

Gladstone doesn’t answer. Donald’s throat audibly swallows. “We… we differ on a lot of things, that’s for sure. But you know you’re family, right? We’re cousins. And if something is wrong-” 

“Nothin’ is wrong, Donnie.” 

“Promise me.” 

The demand has Gladstone blinking dumbly at his phone, as though that would clear up whether he heard him right. Donald says it again; “promise me you’re safe, and that nothing is wrong, and that there’s no dangerous reason as to why you’re calling at almost three in the morning from wherever you are, because I can hear you’re teeth chattering, Gladstone, but it doesn’t sound like you’re moving, so you can  _ tell  _ me if you’re not really on a stroll. Promise me nothing is wrong.” 

Gladstone isn’t sure how he’d want to respond to that. How he could. If he could. He opens his mouth to say  _ something,  _ damn it,  _ anything-  _ but at that moment, a car finally and for the first time since he’d arrived passes down the bridge, loud even to Gladstone’s ears and the engine revs purposefully, almost mockingly. A duck, young enough to be a teenager, certainly too young-looking to be drinking yet with a beer in his hands and shades on despite it being far too dark for them, has his whole torso stuck out the passenger window. He hoots drunkenly as the car drives past where Gladstone is wrapped around the railing for life, though not so dear. 

The kid spots him and whoops. “If you’re gonna jump, do it!” he laughs, and the car passes by with him still laughing, an extra set- probably the driver- laughing along with him. It feels like it takes ages for the car to fully make its way off the bridge and for Gladstone to start breathing again. 

His phone is still on. His heart stops cold in his chest when he realizes Donald probably heard all that. He laughs at an unnaturally high pitch that does everything to betray how desperate he felt. “Kids, amirite?” 

Donald’s voice sounds alarmed and fearful, and Gladstone suddenly can’t do this anymore. The most the unluckiest duck in the world can get out is a choked “Glad-” before the luckiest duck-goose in the world ends the call, holding the phone in a grip so tight he wonders if it will shatter. 

It doesn’t. He doesn’t. He’s still there, still holding onto the not-yet-dried railing at the edge of a bridge he’d just been goaded to jump off of. 

Well. That was what he came there to do, after all. 

(When people say it feels more like flying than falling, they’re wrong. It feels most like forever, and ends just as quick). 

  
  


Somehow, he’s not dead. 

He wakes up, and his first thought it that he absolutely is  _ not  _ dead. He can tell its a hospital immediately, though he’s rarely been in one. He’s seen movies. He’s been in one just the once, however- when his parents died, and his father held on for just long enough, Gladstone just lucky enough to tell him he loves him before he wordlessly passed away. 

He’s aware he’s in the position his father was. That there’s nobody around him but a doctor, telling him that he’s been in a coma for the last four days, that he broke most of his ribs but a passing driver saw him fall and dove into the water after him, getting him to the hospital just in time. 

_ Isn’t that convenient,  _ he thinks to himself. There's no tone to his internal words. He doesn’t yet know what to feel.

The doctor tells him about his slowly healing bones, including also the left arm, and how his shoulder got dislocated at the same time. How he’s lucky he didn’t land on his head or sustain brain damage of any kind, and would need nothing more than rest, meds, and physio to get better. 

How he’s lucky to be alive. 

Gladstone learns again that day that his luck isn’t worth it. 

He has to meet with a psych advisor, one that would assess the situation. He agrees to the meeting and then promptly falls asleep, unsure as to when they scheduled it. 

When he wakes up, Donald is there. 

Gladstone isn’t sure what to say.  _ What, did it work? _ is what he wants to say, because there was no way Donald was really there and he must be dead. 

But he’s high on painkillers, and so the better guess is just that he’s hallucinating, but he doesn’t say that either. 

“Ngggh,” is what he says, which grabs Donald’s attention and provokes a reaction of startlement in the duck, who seemed to be too lost in thought to notice he’d woken up. 

“Gladstone!” he cries and flings himself onto the bed, which actually does hurt, but all Gladstone manages is a wince. “You’re awake!” 

“Ngggh,” he says again, and means it. “Ya, m’wake. ‘Sup, Donnie?” 

“‘Sup’? ‘SUP’? YOU TRIED TO KILL YOURSELF AND THE FIRST THING YOU SAY TO ME IS ‘SUP’?” 

“... No, I think,” he groans, “the first thing I said to you was ‘ngggh’. Like, twice now. Keep up, Donnie.” 

The commotion causes a nurse to come in just in time to stop whatever Donald was about to do, dragging him out and begging for him to calm down. The nurse has to call for security, and Donald, mid-tantrum, is forced out of the room. Gladstone sags against the bedding, far too comfortable for his comfort. It was unbearably soft. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t want to be here. 

Boy, was he going to fail that psych evaluation. 

A doctor is called in- the same one from before- and his vitals are checked. He asks where they took Donald. 

“Oh, the duck that elevated your heart rate so exponentially? He’s not coming back if I can help it. A danger to this hospital, that duck.” 

Gladstone frowns. “He didn’t mean it. He’s my cousin.” 

“Yes, and he can see you again once you’ve been discharged on Saturday.” 

Gladstone does the math in his head. “Wait, really? I’m only stuck here for two days?” 

The doctor duck nods. “You’re lucky your injuries were so minimal-” he says, and Gladstone zones out immediately. His fists are tight against the blanket. If he was receiving important information, he missed it entirely, and the doctor leaves without a farewell or any Gladstone could hear. 

He lays back in the bed, and isn’t sure what to do anymore. 

It’s the next day that the psych evaluator comes. A bluebird with a notepad and a hard beakline, who asks him various questions that Gladstone answers as calmly as possible. 

“Did you try to kill yourself?” 

“... Yes.” 

“Will you try to kill yourself again?” 

“With my luck? There’s no point.” 

“Yes or no?” 

“No.” 

“Are you having violent thoughts?” 

“Nope.” 

“Do you have a history of suicidal thoughts or depression?” 

“No.” (lie. He’s not sure when it all started. He doesn’t know if either of those are the right word. What he knows is that he’s tired of it all). 

“Any medical conditions?” 

“No.” 

“Familial stress?” 

“No.” (lie. Of course, Donald had still showed up. He wondered if he told anybody about the phone call. If anybody knew he was here. If anybody else had come, and he’d just been asleep.) 

“Support system?” 

“Does that mean I can be released?” 

“Depends. Support system?” 

Gladstone answers  _ Donald. _ At least he’d come. He tells him about how Donald has three kids of his own, and how well he handles himself and how he’d be willing to care for him until he was better. He tells him that Donald was the one he called when he needed someone to call. How Donald- and the rest of his family- would always be there, and he’d just been weak, and hadn’t reached out in time. 

The evaluator writes it all down. He’s not sure if its a lie, but in any case, the rest of the evaluation is more or less just instructions. 

He won't be going to a ward. He’ll be staying with Donald, who will help him with his casts and keep his injuries clean. He’ll see a physiatrist and a physiotherapist and a therapist and a few other  _ ists _ until they no longer assess him as a harm to himself. 

Donald will be allowed to come into the hospital again, to watch how to care for his injuries and wrap them so he can shower. He’ll come back eventually to get them off, and past that point, its up to the professionals to help him. 

He says, fine. Maybe he really is lucky, if that’s all there is to it. Maybe that’s not so bad, if he doesn’t have to do more and can finally put this all behind him once the casts were off. 

Maybe. Or maybe the Bluebird was just really bad at his job. Or maybe he was right to let Gladstone off so easy- was there something there he could see that Gladstone couldn’t? 

It’s a thought he’d ponder if he wasn’t so popped up on pain-relieving drugs. 

Donald is called in, and they show him what to do. He pointedly does not talk to Gladstone the entire time he’s receiving instructions on how to care for him in his condition, to which Gladstone merely rolls his eyes at a few times and says nothing, either. He’s on heavy medication that’s making him zone in and out, anyway, so he hopes it's only him Donald is ignoring and not the doctor giving some important information out. 

Once the tutorial is over, Donald leaves, not so much as giving him a goodbye. Gladstone wonders if he imagined waking up to Donald throwing his arms painfully over him, and the relief in his eyes at seeing him awake. He rests until the next day, and then he’s being wheeled out of the hospital, and his cousin is waiting in the lobby to take him. 

He’s passed off with a small reminder of when to return him to the hospital to get his casts off and, an exchange of the nurse handing Donald his bag of pills. He’s already been made clear of when to take them and how many. Gladstone isn’t allowed to have them, and they have to be constantly refilled because they’re in such few amount incase he ‘tried to take them all in one go’, as the doctor had informed him easily. 

Donald bites out a clipped  _ thanks _ and helps him out of the wheelchair, which he doesn’t need, though his balance wasn’t so good after all his body had been through and the drugs in his system. It was merely hospital policy to be wheeled out. 

The duck walks at his side while the nurse is in view. As soon as he’s gone, he stomps his way ahead, just slow enough that Gladstone can stumble behind him and just far enough that he’s always behind him. Gladstone debates asking him to wait up, but decides not to push it, too exhausted for an argument, too confused to ask any of the questions he wanted to ask. 

_ Why did you come?  _ Is the top contender. Did he feel obligated because Gladstone had called him? 

_ Why did I call? _ Comes racing in after, a thought that visually beats the other up in Gladstone’s head, so much that he nearly trips in imagining it and realizes he’d been zoning out. 

_ My mouth tastes weird,  _ is where he ends that, trying to be more careful as he goes. 

Donald doesn’t say a word to him as he holds the front door open for him, and then gets in beside him at the drivers wheel. They pull out of the lot (which must have been expensive to park in judging by the way Donald rips the ticket from his car window and fists it tight before tossing it out the window. Littering. Yeesh) and Donald is silent. 

And he stays silent. And… he stays silent. He drives, hand ridgid on the wheel, and pays more attention to the road than Gladstone has ever seen him pay attention to anything before. 

Gladstone can’t take it. He wants to say something, maybe ask where they're going, if he left the kids with a good babysitter or if he’d found someone special who was watching them. How he found him. Why they’re in what’s clearly a rental car, though he can assume that just means Donald doesn’t have a car. He wants to say sorry again, or maybe be angry, because this is not what he wanted. 

He wanted… well, he doesn’t know. He was so tired of it all. Of the wafting through life, knowing it has out there hurting others. That it was all an excuse. That it was all him, and every time his family shut him out- and he them- it was always because he could never do better or be anything different. 

He’d grown into his luck. Maybe he hadn’t grown enough. 

Through the drive, and a surprisingly long one at that, nobody says anything at all. 

Of course, Gladstone can’t take it. Almost an hour in and his skin feels like it's on fire. He’s scratching hard, trying to distract himself, but it's doing nothing but dropping feathers from his skin. He’s about to give in and finally say something. 

“Stop doing that. You’ll set your skin on fire,” Donald says first, and just like that, Gladstone finds an emotion he’s willing to expose bubble up inside of him and plaster itself onto his face in a shine of surprise and disenjoyment. 

“Oh, look. He can talk,” he says, tongue dripping with sarcasm, and the death-tight grip his cousin has on the steering wheel the entire drive tightens somehow, just a little more. 

Donald grits his teeth and lets out a  _ pah.  _ “Of course I can talk. I just don’t know what to say to you… when you called me,” his voice sounds far away. Gladstone has to make an effort to discern his words, which he usually needn’t do. Donald’s voice was untranslatable at the worst of times, but one could always tell what he was trying to say as he was fairly good at non-verbal communication simply to make up for his speech impediment. Now, he had to really make the effort. Maybe it was the meds they put him on. He blinks, both angry and groggy and now all of a sudden wondering he hadn’t thought to fall asleep for the car ride. Donald is still talking, though, so he tunes back in- “-worried. I didn’t know where you were. I called the cops, but I didn’t know where to tell them to go. I kept calling and calling your phone until someone at the hospital picked up and told me where you were, and what you had done.” 

_ My phone survived the fall?  _ Gladstone thinks in surprise, smart enough to keep it to himself. He pats his shirt pocket, only now feeling the lump that could only be a phone there. 

His cousin has a glean to his eyes that goes no further than a trick of the light. It’s still there despite the hardness of his next words. “I had to pay a babysitter to watch the kids so I could drive all the way out here. I’ve been staying in the cheapest hotel I could while waiting for you to wake up. I lost my apartment. I lost my job, then the job after that, and a few more after that. I lost all my good babysitters, because Little Dewey is too much a trouble maker for the best of them, and most won't even watch them anymore. I had to pay double for one to care for them while I made my way out here. I’ve lost everything and everyone in my life worth keeping. All I have now is you and the boys and some cheap little boat I had to fix up myself. And you-” he chokes. His words go from cold to melted in defeat, the tension in him sagging against the wheel. Nobody is behind them, thankfully, for the car slowly rolls to a stop where it is while Donald rests his head against the wheel as though it's the only thing keeping him up anymore, “-you almost left me, too. I spent the whole time waiting for you to wake up thinking about how I could ever forgive you.” 

Gladstone swallows something burning down the back of his throat. Donald doesn’t look at him, but he can tell he’s waiting for an answer. He has no idea how to answer. 

_ I thought you hated me,  _ he wants to say.  _ I thought you didn’t want me around. I thought I couldn’t do this by myself anymore. _

__ “Donnie… ” he begs, somehow. He pushes himself as far into the passenger seat as possible without hurting his arm, still wrapped in a cast, still broken from the water, from his own suicide attempt. He doesn’t remember hitting the water or nearly drowning in it, but he figures he might understand it, now. 

He doesn’t know what to say. He thinks he should apologize, but he knows it won't be enough. Donald is watching him, head lifted back onto the backrest of the carseat once more. The car is completely stalled, but nobody is behind them, despite it being a common road. The radio isn’t even on- he doesn’t recall if it was to begin with. The rental car sits in place, as still as the air around them, stuffed inside the vehicle side-by-side with silence. 

Tapping his hips with his fingers anxiously, Gladstone takes a while before he can say anything, and Donald, dear old impatient Donald, gives him as long as he needs. 

Eventually, he gets there. “Don’t you hate me?” he asks, has to ask. 

Donald blinks dumbly. “Hate you? Of course I don’t. You drive me up the walls, but so did Della, and so does Gus, and Abner, and Fethry sometimes, and everyone else in this family in their own ways. But they’re all family, like you. We… Gladstone, we might not get along at the worst of times, but we’re family. I could never hate you. I’m-” 

He chokes. Gladstone’s breath is caught in his throat as he waits for Donald to continue. 

“I’m sorry for making you leave,” he lands on, ungracefully. “I should never have put my anger above you. You were trying to help, in your own way. I wanted to do everything on my own. I wanted to be  _ enough. _ But I took that out on you. And I never apologized because I was embarrassed,” he admits, voice shaking. His arms vibrate as his grip on the wheel, useless now with their lack of motion, tightens and loosens in tandem. “But I’m sorry. And I’m sorry it came too late.” 

Gladstone deflates. “Oh,” he lets out in a breath. “Well. You’re a good man, Donald. And I’m… I’m so lucky that I never bothered to be, not even to myself.” 

His fingers stopped patting his leg somewhere along his words, but they were clenched now, and he's not sure when they did that, either. He can feel them though, tight and sweaty and freezing. It was cold underwater when you don’t even remember hitting it. Was Donald cold? His eyes were warm, watching him softly, looking about to cry himself. More water couldn’t hurt, right? No, he doesn’t want Donald to cry. That’s not fair to him. He doesn’t deserve that.

Carefully, he unclenches his hands. “I’m going to get better. At this, I mean. At being happy. I don’t want to keep making you cry, Don.” 

Donald wipes his eyes. “I’m not crying.” 

“Ya kinda are, Cuz.” 

“Shaddup, I’m not!” Donald cries. “I’m going to help you. And you’re going to tell me exactly why you feel this way, if you can, so I can do what I can to be there for you.” 

Gladstone lets out a puffed breath. “I don’t know how to word it, man.” 

Donald rubs his headfeathers. “I’m good at non-verbal communication. Give me the time?” 

Oh, great. Gladstone rubs his own eyes, frowning when the come away wet themselves. He’s… crying. He’s  _ crying.  _ Something about it feels so surreal now, and it's all he can do to nod. Donald smiles, wipes his own eyes once more, then starts the car again. 

  
  


He shouldn’t be surprised, but Donald takes him to his house. It’s… not a house. 

It’s a houseboat. Gladstone raises an eyebrow at it. “You’ve got a boat, but no car?” 

Donald puffs. “I’ve got a car, but the kids crashed it when they tried to sneak out and drive it to Cape Suzette.” 

Gladstone’s eyes widen. Weren’t they only two? “Are they okay?” 

“Their ears are still ringing from how much I yelled at them, but they’re fine. And the houseboat was on sale, and,” he puffs his chest up a little, and Gladstone can’t help but wonder if he even notices he’s doing it, “I fixed it up myself.” 

Gladstone whistles as Donald pulls up to the docs and parks. Once its stalled, they each let themselves out, though Donald doesn’t bother to wait for Gladstone to shimmy out without hurting his cast before he makes his way to the boat, only turning around to lock it once Gladstone is out fully. Donald is inside before Gladstone has even made it there, and the Gander can’t help but laugh at his eagerness to see his boys. 

Almost cautiously, Gladstone drags himself along, much slower than his usual pace. He’s not met the kids, not since they were eggs. He didn’t really know how to conduct himself with children. 

What if he blew it again? Donald said he’d stick by him, but if he messed up again, he might rescind that. Gladstone always managed to hurt Donald in some way or another- at least when they were kids, he could laugh about it. 

He lost his humor on the subject when he lost Donald for what he thought was for good.

Slowly, he takes a deep, careful breath. The water rocks gently on the boat, a bright and stead set-in along the afternoon descension of the sun. It’s glimmering and peaceful and nothing like the currents that swept him up, that he let sweep him up. It reminds him, somehow, of a puddle Fethry had been eager to point out to him so long ago. 

It’s beautiful. Inside the boat, he can hear voices. Probably the kids, or maybe just Donald and whoever was watching them. It's a soft sound, a song along the chipped wooden dock he stands dumbly on, unsure how to take another step. 

Gladstone’s luck was not something he hated. He thinks, maybe, he’d come to confuse it for such- something of a coat he could never take off, a guarantee devoid of matter, a shield from the hurt he wanted to feel in light of easy, free, convenient. 

He didn’t hate it. He didn’t hate never going poor, knowing he was safe as he was. Maybe he hated that aspect of it- that he never had to change. The ease of living without having to try made it not worth it, after a while. 

But he had to work at this. At being someone that didn’t mess up family, at being someone who deserved one. This, his luck would never make happen for him. 

He’d forgotten about this. About what Grandma Elvira had told him, so long ago. _ Only the unlucky gloat about what they have.  _ She’d tried to tell him, and in his own way, so had Uncle Scrooge. What’s worth being proud of would never be what he could rub in Donald’s face or show off to Della or push down for Fethry. 

It  _ was  _ Donald, who lived an unlucky life and loved it anyway, loved his kids and the thought of being someone they could love, too. And it was Della, even now, even with her gone. And it was Fethry, though he was busy, though he was the best of them. 

He never lost them. He lost himself, and forgot how to get them back, because he never really tried. He never called them up, too afraid he’d already messed up, or would do it again. His luck never worked on them, and there was nothing to bribe them into sticking around, and that was all he had- so, he thought,  _ myself isn’t enough.  _ And it wasn’t. 

He has to be better. The sudden sound of a child's voice, overlapped by another, and a third above- mixed with Donald’s own voice- hits him hard in the chest, warm and soft, so unlike the water below the bridge, but rather now the boat. 

Gladstone would not mess this up. Maybe things with Donald could never truly be fixed. But  _ he  _ could- could be there for them again, could be worthy of that. Could be more than just lucky, for once. 

Maybe this was luck. Donald sticks his head out of the boat, and calls to him, “are you coming in or what?” 

Ya. He felt, for once, like the luckiest Gander in the world. 

“Ya. I’m coming.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd really appreciate a comment or even a kudo to let me know how many people bothered to read this far. If anybody wants to message me or just see what I'm up to my tumblr and my instagram (both of which are trash and also for art) is just @ dasicality


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